


Enough

by zizis



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 14:00:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11738538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zizis/pseuds/zizis
Summary: Bernie leaves Holby. But I doubt this is how the Holby writers wrote it.





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Note : I wrote this in anticipation of being disappointed, perhaps even distressed, by the manner of Bernie’s departure and to console myself in advance. I hope it helps.

“Enough.”

Bernie sank her head in her hands. It was enough. How much more loss did she have to bear ? Her marriage, her children, Ellinor, Serena (oh God, Serena), Jasmine, and now her (their) trauma unit. She had stood in the room as they wheeled out the trauma equipment piece by piece. Her hands fisted into her scrub pockets lest she strike out in her frustration and despair.

Enough.

She reached for the bottle of whiskey sat on the kitchen table and unscrewed the top. She raised the bottle as if to pour but then placed it back down again. Enough of that too. Enough having to rely on yet another glass to get her through the next few hours. 

Time to walk away. From the hospital, from Holby, from it all. There was no reason to stay. Not anymore. She would pen her letter of resignation to Hanssen straight away. It was enough.

********

The letter was written. Her regrets, professional, expressed. She sealed the envelope and left it ready to take in tomorrow.

Soberly, in more ways than one, she climbed the stairs to bed. To her empty bed. She lay there in the darkness. The clock beside her ticked loudly, irritatingly, pecking at the silence. Sleep, as so often now, eluded her. It had left her waking skin palid, grey deep smudges beneath her empty eyes. Sleep. Please sleep. Respite – just for a moment. 

Dully, without desire, she reaches for herself. A moment’s release that might just allow her to drift off. She pushes beneath the waistband of her shorts and slowly begins to stroke. She tries to empty her mind, to think of nothing but the physical sensation of her long fingers caressing her sex. Her body gradually responds, as they slide, dip and circle. But her fingers betray her. They conjure up a remembrance of the woman she loved, loves still. Serena. They tease her with remembrances of the touch of her fingers, her taste on her lips, her mouth on her nipple. She feels her fingers deep inside her. And when the wave comes it is not of relief or release, but of loss and loneliness. The pain of her absence overwhelms her. She arches her back and cries out her name. Serena. And the wave washes over her, drowns her.

********

In the morning she sits with a mug of coffee. She stares at the letter to Hanssen propped up against the whiskey bottle. She reaches for her mobile phone and scrolls down her twitter feed. Since Serena left she’s sent her a few texts but Serena has rarely responded. And when she did it was no more than the odd emoji. Bernie is no fan of social media. Doesn’t tweet or post. But Serena is. Bernie looks to Serena’s time line. Since she’s left all she’s posted have been photographs of things she’s seen. No commentary. No pictures of herself. Just what she is seeing. And often at the edge of the picture a bit of the blue camper van that Bernie assumes she is travelling in. She scrolls slowly through the pictures. Wonders what she is looking at now. Wonders where she is. She recognises the odd land mark. And slowly a thought creeps into her mind. Suppose she can identify more of them. Maybe, just maybe, they are clues. Clues to where Serena is. Clues to where Serena is now. She reaches for her laptop and opens the lid. She begins.

**********

Southern France is still dusty and dry in the autumn heat. Temperatures have been high this summer. Forest fires have broken out and scarred the hills. But Bernie has not been deterred. She has travelled down through France, by train, by bus, and beyond the bus routes, hitching a lift. The wine harvest – La Vendange - in Provence is beginning. Somewhere near here, if her reading of the tweets is right, Serena has paused on her journey and is lending a hand to gather in her beloved grapes. But where exactly ? She knows it must be a smaller vineyard, one that relies on hand picking rather than machines. From the photographs she has narrowed it to around Arles. She has been to two already. 

The truck drops her off at the turning to the next. She hoists her duffle sack onto her shoulder and trudges up the rutted lane, the dry stony earth crunching beneath her sturdy boots. Ahead is a small gathering of disparate vehicles and tents in a small patch of field. The sun is beginning to dip and the sky is blushing pinker. A bead of sweat trickles down her temple onto her cheek. And then she sees it. Could it be ? A blue camper van. Its’ awning opened to one side.

Her heart begins to pound. Her legs feel heavy with hope that just maybe… and fear what if not. She keeps walking forward. There is a figure sitting on a chair beneath the awning. Her hair is silvered and vaguely unkempt. Even at this distance she can see the sun burnished skin.

The pull is like a magnet claiming her. One word repeating on her lips. 

“Serena”

The woman smiles as she approaches. Bernie notices the glass of wine in her hand. The bottle on the table by her. And then she sees the second chair, the second glass sitting empty by the bottle. 

“Oh. You’re not alone.”

She feels her lungs crush. She barely registers the woman’s reply.

“No, I’m not …. now.”

When the penny finally drops, all she can manage is, “Serena…..” as the tears spill from her eyes.

“I’ve been waiting,” Serena says as she stands up to greet Bernie, “Hoping.”

And as she puts her arms around Bernie’s tired frame, all the pain and loneliness Bernie has held in for all those long months pours out of her in a torrent of sobs. For here, at last, is where she belongs, in Serena’s arms, wherever those arms may be.


End file.
